The Youngest
by LesMisLoony
Summary: Updated again. It started as a oneshot, but now I don't know what you'd call it. Montparnasse, Eponine, and something that probably never crossed your mind.
1. Montparnasse

Montparnasse fingered the money in his pocket, scowling as the coins clinked together with each step. He was thinking of all the things he could have bought—food, finery, or a female—and was giving up on _her_ behalf.

He knew he should not have become so involved. He knew he should not have come to her so often. He wished he had used her once and cast her aside, as he had done to so many others.

No, not Montparnasse. He had to come back. It was the pleasure of using the money he had so often set aside for female company to buy a new suit that had pleased him. After all, Éponine's services were free, provided her father was allowed the right to summon the Patron-Minette for the sake of his own little exploits. She had been an option for any of the gang—until Montparnasse had ruined it.

He arrived at the garret apartment and knocked irritably. The mother opened the door.

"Well," she said politely, "has it been a month already?"

Montparnasse nodded grimly. "I have money. As we agreed, thirty percent of all my lone jobs."

The woman moved away from the door. "Come in, come in," she insisted. "Éponine will want to see you."

Though he personally disagreed, Montparnasse entered the apartment obediently.

Both of the tiny boys were home—their elder brother, Gavroche, had not been seen in months—and Éponine was seated on one of the lumpy mattresses, cradling the youngest, perhaps a year old, in her lap. She glanced up at Montparnasse with glazed, emotionless eyes. He curled his lip.

"I shall leave the money on the table."

Éponine said nothing, turning back to the little child. Montparnasse emptied his pocket and turned to go, but spun about halfway to the door and approached Éponine.

"Well, how is he?" He squatted by the bed and peered at the sleeping child.

Éponine scowled, still saying nothing.

"He's doing well, thanks to you, m'sieur," the mother said from the doorway.

Montparnasse did not turn around, keeping his eyes on the child. "Is that true?" he asked Éponine.

Still she would not speak to him.

Sighing, Montparnasse heaved himself to his feet and turned to go.

"He won't have your name," Éponine said suddenly.

Montparnasse stopped. "What?"

"He won't have your name," she repeated. "He's going to be my brother. I'll never tell him."

"It doesn't matter to me," Montparnasse lied. He continued to the door.

The mother saw him out. "We'll see you in a month," she called after him.

"A month," Montparnasse agreed.

He left as quickly as he could.


	2. The Thenardiess

The Thénardiess caught herself glaring at the boy's back as he left.

She hated the way he kept his spine so straight as he walked, the way he lifted his head and thrust out his chest. She hated the way she simpered whenever she saw him. She hated her husband's order to be polite to their only steady source of income.

After a moment, the sharp clicks of his boots faded from the hallway. She closed the door to their room and leaned against it, still glowering after the departed boy.

The Thénardiess could not find it in herself to turn her fury toward her husband when, more than a year ago, he had announced that the Patron-Minette, a street gang he had kept an eye on since their arrival in Paris, could make use of their eldest daughter. She was appalled; she was mortified; she was disgusted! Éponine was hardly ten years old! But her husband was unrelenting.

There were four men who came the most. One was so big that the Thénardiess feared he would crush her little daughter beneath him. They came because Éponine was too young to have children of her own. The youngest of the Patron-Minette, an adolescent only a few years older than Éponine, was the most frequent visitor. After a while she hardly even saw the others. The boy returned several times a week.

She would sit in this hallway, breathing deeply, eyes and fists clenched, leaning against this very door. The Thénardiess remembered holding her own pregnant belly and hoping they would be in a better place soon, a place where the new baby would be safe. Éponine's pained moans from beyond the door gave fuel to these dreams.

Feeling she had failed her first born, the Thénardiess began to focus all her motherly affections on Azelma. The younger girl was petted and pampered until her own father could not stand her. He never spoke of Azelma to his colleagues. The Thénardiess felt she had succeeded.

Everything changed when Éponine began to be sick each morning. The mother tried to ignore the signs; she was recovering from childbirth herself.

It had been a night like this one, almost a year ago, when the Thénardiess had stopped the boy from entering this door. Holding her baby son to her bosom, she had carefully informed him of what he had done. Her husband had demanded she be polite, and it had taken all of her resolve to obey. Then the husband himself had come onto the hallway from the far end; the boy looked as though he felt trapped. He jerked away from them as though he would escape, but there was nowhere to go. Her husband took him by the shoulder and they made the agreement then. He would pay them.

The children, whose ages together were not thirty, became parents.


	3. Eponine

Éponine knocked once as she entered the room, an old habit she had developed in the early days of her father's association with the Patron-Minette. She had been afraid to take him and his companions by surprise. Now the habit was mechanical, and she entered the room without thinking of it.

Her mother sat alone in the chair, her arms hanging limply over the sides and the soles of her boots turned toward the empty fireplace. The mother stared at nothing, but looked up guiltily at the sound of Éponine's knock.

"Ah," she said softly, "Éponine."

The daughter smiled and dropped a heavy purse into her lap. "There we go. That's enough for my boy and yours. So don't start complaining about feeding so many mouths any more, Maman. I shall assist you. And when the boys are old enough, we can even teach them to help. The Thénardiers shall work together in the shady family business, eh?"

The mother did not answer. She moved the purse from her lap, heaved herself to her feet, and took hold of both of Éponine's hands. "Angel—"

"Not to worry, Maman. I've been thinking about it. I know I said I wanted to raise my boy proper, but I have to think more honestly, now don't I? We can't afford it, so we shan't. But it won't be all bad. I mean, Azelma and I are all right, and we were raised this way, so maybe... maybe..." she glanced around the little room. "Where are the boys, Maman?"

"My darling," the mother began again, but she faltered and surrendered.

"Maman?" repeated Éponine, her voice becoming stern. And without warning panic seized at her, clamping the heavy fist of a giant over her midsection, choking, suffocating her. Her thoughts were tangled together in a wild buzzing that settled into her ears. "Where are the boys? Where's—where is Papa?"

Her mother's eyes reflected Éponine's own pain, but even as the girl watched something changed and hardened in them. The mouth reshaped itself into a scowl, and she dropped her daughter's hands.

"I have no use for a squalling pack of children."

"Where are they? Where is he? Where is my boy? Maman!" Éponine cried. "What did you do to my boy?"

The mother turned her back and returned to the chair, falling into it with a heavy thud. She did not answer.

Éponine screamed at her, howling with fear and rage, launching herself at the woman and beating her with her callused fists. The mother shoved her away and she fell to the floor, clutching at her own matted hair and shrieking still, hot tears squeezing through her eyes and across her reddening face.

She did not know what had happened to her son. She could only assume that he had been killed; she remembered the sleepless nights when she had desperately tried to turn herself so that her massive belly did not press hard upon her lower back. She remembered screaming this loudly nearly a year before, the feeling that all her insides were ripping open, the blood that she had had to clean up herself, and the exhausting way the child's idiot father had gazed at her, apologizing, visiting so frequently until she finally drove him away. She remembered the boy's dark eyes, the serene way he had gazed at her face as he fell asleep, his first laugh.

Éponine wailed and bellowed until she was exhausted, until she could do nothing but cry softly as she lay on the cold wooden floor of their dirty little room. Her mother remained completely still and silent.

At last Éponine pulled herself up, ragged, dry sobs still breaking through, and faced her mother. "Where is he?" she asked again, levelly.

The mother glanced at her quickly, gauging her mood, before answering, choosing her words with obvious caution. "When that brat came by the other day with his money, and he mentioned that a woman in the business was willing to pay for two boys about their age. To take them. Her own boys died not too long ago. She'll pay us ten francs a month."

"My son," Éponine replied slowly, "was not yours to... _sell_."

"You said he was to be your brother."

"You didn't give birth to him! You didn't carry him inside you! He wasn't yours to sell!"

"We can't feed him."

"Then we'll go!" cried Éponine. "Bring him back to me, and he and I shall go out and seek our fortune elsewhere. Give me back my boy."

"It's done!" the mother shouted, raising her voice at last. Éponine fell back to the floor and wrapped her arms around her legs, dropping her forehead to touch her knees. The mother watched, concern in her eyes, as her girl's back heaved with more silent tears.

Neither moved for a long time, but at last Éponine looked up, her eyes glazed and unfocused. "How did you say you found this woman?" she asked in a detached monotone.

"That boy of yours," the mother answered warily.

"Montparnasse," said Éponine, and she stalked out of the room, slamming the door behind her.


	4. 1832

"Hello, is that you, Montparnasse?"

It was the same greeting, but a different voice. Montparnasse looked around in confusion. He had received word that Gavroche was dead.

He had last seen the boy not long before his death. The gamin knew Montparnasse from his father's dealings with the Patron-Minette, but had hardly bothered to exchange words with him. Montparnasse had been content for things to remain this way.

When Gavroche had answered him that night, Montparnasse had felt a surge of an emotion he did not recognize. He had carefully avoided the Thénardier family since they had changed their name to Jondrette upon giving away Éponine's son. His son.

Even now, years later, his cheek smarted at the memory of that day. Wrapped in a feeling he refused to call shame, Montparnasse had avoided the entire lot, especially Éponine, unless he was obligated to deal directly with the father.

He had learned from his mistakes; never did he let a romance last more than a week, though he preferred one night only. If he had sired more children since, none of the prostitutes could possibly prove that he was the father. He refused to ever let himself be trapped again.

But that stormy spring night, he and Gavroche had crossed paths on the street corner, chatted, pretended they were old comrades. Montparnasse immediately saw that he was showing off for a pair of his little friends, and played along. Perhaps he was concerned that the boy's eldest sister would find out if he didn't. They had spoken of Babet's clever escape from prison, of costumes and disguises—Montparnasse had even thrown in a phrase of basic argot to further impress the littler boys.

And the whole charade proved itself useful later that night, when the Patron-Minette had used Gavroche to help his father escape La Force. Everything had come together smoothly, and Montparnasse privately felt he had finally managed to win back some of the respect of the Jondrette family.

Now here he was, at least a full month after Gavroche had died, and a child's voice had called to him with the same greeting.

He spotted an urchin squatting next to a fountain, a starved little boy with browned, tattered rags for clothes, bared head, and a tarnished and broken watch on a string around his neck. He reminded the thief of Gavroche. Having already called his name, the boy began to beckon to him.

Montparnasse warily approached the child.

"You're Montparnasse, aren't you?" the boy asked.

"I am. What do you want, alms?"

"Well," said the child, suddenly shy, dragging a dirt-covered foot across the ground, "I wanted to know if you could help me out."

Montparnasse rolled his eyes and shoved a hand into his pocket.

"No, no, none of that. It's just—my room. My... my _digs._ I wanted to find it. I've lost it, and I remembered you, and thought maybe you'd help me out."

"Your digs, eh?" Montparnasse grinned at the clumsy use of argot. "How would I know where to take you?"

"The elephant!" the boy explained eagerly. "It's a fearsome big thing, and there's mice inside it that would eat up a cat, but it keeps out the rain."

Montparnasse stepped back and studied the urchin again. "How do you know about Gavroche's cat?" he asked softly.

"Gavroche!" cried the boy. "Yes, he's the reason I know you. He took us there, to the elephant, me and my brother, and I just wanted... I wanted to talk to him."

"Why, you're one of those little brats!" Montparnasse exclaimed, nearly laughing. "One of the brats he found the night we sprung his father! You've taken to the streets remarkably well."

The child grinned at the compliment, and Montparnasse gestured for him to follow. As they left the little park, Montparnasse noticed the boy looking fondly over his shoulder, trotting to keep up with Montparnasse's long strides.

"How long have you been staying there?"

Beaming up at him, the urchin told him that he had spent almost a month in the park, afraid to wander out in case he would be lost. At night he slept in a little nook between a row of rosebushes and a tree; by day he begged off the bourgeoisie and robbed picnickers. He and his brother had talked of returning to the elephant Gavroche had shown them, but neither knew how to get there. The last time they had seen either Gavroche or the elephant, they had awakened to find Gavroche, the guardian angel that had protected him the night before, had disappeared with the dawn. The boys had pushed out of the little mesh cage and slowly climbed down one of the elephant's massive legs, finding occasional footholds in the cracking mortar. "But we practiced at climbing the trees in the park, so the legs shouldn't pose such a problem now," the boy finished grandly.

"Is that so?" the thief asked amiably.

"Indeed."

"And your brother, where is he?"

There was a long pause. Montparnasse looked down, but the boy had gone. He turned and saw him standing still in the street a few paces behind. Rejoining him, he repeated, "Your brother? You had a brother."

The boy opened his mouth to respond, but no sound came forth. The thief saw that he was swallowing back tears, afraid to embarrass himself in such company. Montparnasse dropped to a crouch at his side just as a thin tear slipped out of the child's eye. "Oh, don't do that," he muttered, roughly wiping the urchin's damp cheeks. The dirt on his face smeared beneath Montparnasse's white glove, and the dandy winced. "Well, whatever it was—"

"Maman," the boy said suddenly. "He wanted to find Maman and Mamselle Miss. He left the park, it didn't matter what I said, and he told me he'd bring them back to find me. I fought with him and told him not to go, but he hit me and he went and he never came back."

Mamselle Miss.

In the terrified pause that followed this outburst, Montparnasse went through a parade of emotions, each stronger than the last, a whirl of concern, realization, shock, guilt, and panic. "Your mother," he said, "what was her name? What was her name, boy?" he found himself shouting, shaking the child. "Tell me her name!"

The frightened urchin began to weep again, stammering the syllables Montparnasse knew and feared he would hear. La Magnon. He released the child and backed away, staring, mouth agape. La Magnon. A name he had repeated five years ago to old Thénardier. A name he had refused to say for Éponine, no matter what she threatened or how hard she struck him. He didn't want this responsibility. He wanted his old freedom. He caught her wrist in his hand and threw her, hard, away from him, anything to get her off, turned, ran... She was there at the Rue Plumet, her good friend, she called him, but he still saw the hatred in her eyes, years old, glossed over, passionate fury for what he had taken from her. The baby he had thrust upon her, taken away, given to La Magnon. La Magnon.

Montparnasse dashed back toward the sobbing child, seizing both his shoulders, holding him still, searching his face desperately, his eyes jumping back and forth, and he saw it. He saw Éponine's pretty brow, a pout in the chapped, peeling lips, the Thénardier nose.

He pulled the child toward him in a clumsy embrace, clutching him to his chest. His grip, though amateurish, seemed to calm the boy, and his wails faded to sighs, then hiccoughs, then nothing. Montparnasse moved him back and looked at his face again, wiping the tears away, disregarding his sullied gloves.

"I'm sorry," he told the boy. "I didn't mean to frighten you. I didn't mean to upset you. Listen, here, cheer up. Just follow me for a while. I'll show you a few tricks. Does that appeal?" the boy nodded, wiping his nose on his sleeve. "Appearances aside," Montparnasse grinned feebly, "you have plenty of learning to do if you want to survive in Pantin."

He put an awkwardly reassuring hand on the boy's shoulder to guide him, and they left the alley together.


End file.
